Entry 07

Today,

I woke up gasping for air. My fingers are shaking as I write this. I’m begging you to see that there is nothing left in me anymore. That I can’t hold myself anymore. There is a sickness in me that is sucking my heart dry. I can’t find the words anymore. I’m falling apart and I need my daddy really badly. But there’s no one there.

I feel there is something missing in me, something worthy of hate.

God, can’t you see me on the floor clutching my heart and screaming? Why won’t you take me away? You gave me nothing. You thought I should be burdened with intense despair, and you won’t even tell me what it’s all for. Surely no one is capable to hold this kind of suffering. This illness of the mind.

There are a million voices and sorrows in me that are fighting to be heard and they are ripping me apart. I am trying to let each one speak but I am losing the fight. Do I speak about my disordered self, or the person that put shards of glass in every inch of my body and left me to take each one out? (I lost my fucking spark, all I did was love you) Or the part of me that needs love desperately it is disgusting, or the one that feels so lonely all she sees are images of death.

Every day I feel the infinite hopelessness of it all. I stare into the distance; I look like I got out of my body and left it to rot there in the corner. How can this much darkness exist in a girl that looks like me? And how do I explain that to anyone? And who could love it regardless? It is all so childlike. I shock myself sometimes.

I drag myself, say my hellos, but really, I am craving the tightness and depth of the grave. I’m sinking in my place. Time is faithless. A hoax.

I try not to call anyone. I try not to release this disease onto anyone. I’m terrified that this is all I am.

I’m retreating into nothingness. You will never understand what is eating me. Because you will invent a person. And you will accuse me. That is what people do.

This soul of mine is vulgar, sickening, ugly, too wanting.

These people make me feel like my existence is a sin. That I must be contained. These empty, manipulated, idiotic vultures. I have turned into a ghost from trying to make myself more digestible for a place that sees nothing beyond their own selves. All I want is to slowly fade into the sounds of the earth, under a willow tree, by a slow river, with poetry reciting in my head. I want to die with the words that live up there. To be nothing but the art that I am still living for. I can hear my bones staggering from the constant shoving. I am unsightly. I understand if you want to look away now.

I don’t want to have needs. I don’t want to attempt to communicate this incommunicable misery. I want to be erased. Maybe try again. Be given another soul. I do not want this paralysis, this incessant pest that lives in my head. I do not want to be starved for tenderness. I do not want to remember that I was never meant to be born. So imperfect, so weak. Repetitive and unable to stop talking about the plague of her soul. The tar. This living is harrowing. I want to run and never stop.

I went inside my head as a child and have not come out since. I am not strong enough for this inexplicable absurdity, this joke of a mind.

I continue to wait and ache. I continue to belong to moments. Moments that taste like blood.

Will you place your hand on my cheek and show me something human? Tell me what I look like? I have lost my sight and feeling to madness. I have given myself to absence. There seems to be no way back. But humans are devious. I have learned not to make a home out of someone.

A heated needle and reluctant intimacy. A knife to carve the outline of the wings that I once had. The purity I carried when I was first born.

Bestial, undeserving. I cannot remember the words I wanted to use. I forgot the ones that might help you see what is inside of me. I am suffocating with words that would not form.

I fade into deplorable mania. It is too late now. I am chained to it. That is what I must live with.

I carry my own ashes.